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JAPANESE HOKKUS 



BY YONE NOGUCHI 

Seen and Unseen. 
The Voice of the Valley. 
From the Eastern Sea. 
The Pilgrimage. 
Lafcadio Hearn in Japan. 
The Spirit of Japanese Poetry. 
The Spirit of Japanese Art. 
The Story of Yone Noguchi. 
Ten Noh Plays. 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



BY 



YONE NOGUCHI y 




Boston 

The Four Seas Company 

1920 



^^f 



Zi 



Copyright, ip2o\by\<^Z*yjjJ^ 



The Four Seas Company"^ 



The Four Seas Press 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 



: «w,^ 



U 1^ , i_ : \<JC 



©CU601179 



's-.* 



*V», rt /L- 



TO 
WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS 



PREFACE 

j^'he word epigram is not right word (and there's 

\.o right word at all) for Hokku, the seventeen 

j/llable poem of Japan, just as overcoat is not 

le word for our haori. "That is good," I ex- 

laimed in spite of myself, when I found this 

bmparison. We know that haori is more, or 

:ss, according to your attitude, than the overcoat 

f Western garb which rises and falls with prac- 

^cal service; when I say more, I mean that our 

iipanese haori is unlike the western overcoat, 

piece of art and besides, a symbol of rite, as 

3 usefulness appears often when it means prac- 

cally nothing. If I rightly understand the word 

Digram, it is or at least looks to have one object, 

iice that overcoat of practical use, to express 

)mething, a Cathay of thought or not, before 

self; its beauty, if it has any, is like that of a 

etsuke or okimono carved in ivory or wood, 

ecorative at the best. But what our Hokku 

[7] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

aims at is, like the haori of silk or crepe, a use 
fulness of uselessness, not what it expresses butjpi 
how it expresses itself spiritually; its real valu^ thick 
is not in its physical directness but in its psycho-ijf 
logical indirectness. To use a simile, it is lik^m 
a dew upon lotus leaves of green, or under mapl^verys 
leaves of red, which although it is nothing but s 
trifling drop of water, shines, glitters anc 
sparkles now pearl-white, then amethyst-blue 
again ruby-red according to the time of day andcoUecl 
situation; better still to say, this Hokku is lik^Erfi 
a spider- thread laden with the white summeJdidSi 
dews, swaying among the branches of a tree lik^of 
an often invisible ghost in air, on the perfecpout 
balance; that sway indeed, not the thread itself 
is the beauty of our seventeen syllable poem 

I can not forget Mrs. N. S. who came to seeJoursel 
me at the poppy-covered mountainside of Calii 
fornia one morning, now almost seventeen year^andp} 
ago; what I cannot forget chiefly about thai at 
morning is her story that she made a roundabout 

[8] 



w 



H 



feet'; 



PREFACE 

svay in entering into my garden as the little 
t)roper path had been blocked by a spider-net 
114 hick with diamonds. I exclaimed, then, as I do 
)ften today, "Such a dear sweet soul (that could 
lot dare break that silvery thread) would be the 
ipbl^ery soul who will appreciate our Hokku." 
it a; I confess that I secretly desired to become a 
and)|:Iokku poet in my younger days, that is now 
wenty years ago, and I used to put the Hokku 
an(l; collection of Basho or Buson with Spencer's 
\k)]^ducation in the same drawer of my desk; what 
meiiliid Spencer mean, you might wonder, for a boy 
)f sixteen or seventeen? I myself wonder today 
ibout it when I look back on it; but it was the 
T^ounger day of new Japan when even we boys 
bought to educate others before being educated 
ij)urselves (there was Spencer's Education) , and 
ve wished to swallow all the Western wisdom 
;ar|)md philosophy, Spencer or Darwin or what else, 
lit a gulp. I used to pass through Shiba Park 
amous for the Sleeping Houses of the Feudal 

[9] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



'estern 



rthly 



Princes and also for the pine forest towering 
over the mortality and age, towards my schooli 
at Mita, whither today I turn my steps againl^t 
to tell the Japanese students about the Englishh' 
poets born in the golden clime, or other 
clime; and I often looked up with irresistible! fol*^ I 
longing of heart, to a little cottage on a hillii^^'^f 
in this sacred park where Yeiki Kikakudo,'®) 
the descendant of the famous Hokku poet! 
Kikaku in poetical lineage, used to live in! 
his seventieth year. I cannot recollect now ex- 
actly how I happened to call on him one night 
except from my impulse and determination that| 
my meeting with him was thought necessary for 
my poetical development; it was the night of|i 
Meigetsu, the full moon of September, when 
many wanderers like myself, moths restless afterije; 



w 
serve 

its 
wkr 
i,sat 
lich 



soul's sensation, could be seen in the park 
through the shadows of trees. The little house, 
I mean that of Master Yeiki, so small that it 
might be comfortably put in any ordinary-sized 

[10] 



I wk 



'ther 



PREFACE 

ring western drawing-room, was deadly silent with 

light lighted ; I thought at once that it was the 

et's beautiful consideration towards the moon 

lose heavy light, not being disturbed by any 

-thly lamp, might thus have full sway. I met 

tibleji old poet sitting on the step under the golden 
Dwer of the light, when I climbed up to his 
use, he led me within the house where the 
jji doors all open welcomed the moon with 
[-fashioned hospitality. Indeed, that should 
the way to treat the celestial guest ; when you 
serve how the Japanese moonlight crawls in 
:h its fairy-like golden steps, you will wonder 
w humanized it is here. We two, young and 
;[, sat silent, leaving all the talk to the breezes 
ich carried down the moon's autumnal mes- 
;e ; the light fell on the hanging at the tokono- 
whereon I read the following Hokku poem: 

Autumn's full moon: 

Lo, the shadows of a pine tree 

Upon the mats ! 

[1.1] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

Really it was my first opportunity to observe t 
full beauty of the light and shadow, more tl 
beauty of the shadow in fact far more lumino 
than the light itself, with such a decorativene^ 
particularly when it stamped the dustless ma 
as a dragon-shaped, ageless pine tree; I thank 
Kikaku, the author of the above lines, for givii 
me just the point to find the natural beauty, J'^^"' 
which my imagination should have play enou^ 
I bowed to the Poet Yeiki for good-night, a 
thanked him for the most interesting talk, i 
though we had spoken scarcely a word, but 
was perfectly tickled in delight as already th 
the old story of Emerson and Carlyle who h; 
a happy chat in silence was known to me. Wh 
I left him, the moon was quite high, under who 
golden blessing all the trees and birds hurried 
dream; it was exactly such a night on whi 
only two or three years ago I wrote the f ollowiiter, n 
lines : 

[12] 



kaul 



ppose 
iontlK 



iin 



!rve' 



;s 
hanki 



thd 



PREFACE 

Across the song of night and moon, 
t Across the song of night and moon, 
(O perfume of perfumes!) 
My soul, as a wind 
Whose heart's too full to sing. 
Only roams astray ... 

eed, how I wandered that night, now thinking 
this poet, then on that Hokku poem ; I clearly 
lember it was the very night that I felt fully 
beauty of the following impromptu in Hokku 
Basho : 

Shall I knock 

At Miidera Temple's gate? 

Ah, moon of to-night! 

ppose you stand at that temple's gate high 
)n the hill lapped and again lapped by the slow 
ter, with your dreamy face towards this Lake 
va in the shape of a biwa-lute, which, as a 
[13] 



irk of 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

certain poetess has written, "like a shell of whWokli 
lies dropped by the passing day." I am sure yj W 
will feel yourself to be a god or goddess in t 
beginning of the world as in the Japanese n^tance, 
thology, who by accident or mystery has ris 
above the opalescent mists which softly cover t 
earth of later night. 

I did not forget to carry with me the Hoklj 
collection of Basho or Buson or some other pq 
in my American life, even when I did the s 
called tramp life in 1896- 1898 through the Ca 
fornia field full of buttercups, by the mounta^^^s, 
where the cypress tree beckoned my soul to fl 
not merely because the thought of home ar 
longing for it was then my only comfort, 
more because by the blessing of the book, I me^ 
the Hokku book, I entered straight into the grei 
heart of Nature ; when I left the Pacific Slope 
later years towards the Eastern cities built by til 
modern civilization and machineries, I suddenip 
thought I had lost the secret understanding 

[14] 



lepoe 



t 



•akusi 
tore 
PnS( 



wliiii Hokku poems born in Japan, insignificant like 
ireyi^akeside reed and irresponsible like a dragon- 
; how could you properly understand, for 
tance, the following Hokku poem in New 
irk of skyscrapers and automobiles: 



Hold 
:rpoi 

lie Si^ 



iintaji;' 

to 

lei 



!grei 
ope 

byi 



PREFACE 



A cloud of flowers! 
Is it the bell of Uyeno 
Or that of Asakusa? 



e poet, by the way Basho, means the cloud of 
tvers, of course, in Mukojima of Tokyo, whose 
Drous profusion shuts out every prospect and 
»ught of geographical sense, of East or West ; 
Jjen to the bell ringing from the distance! 
es it come from the temple of Uyeno or 
akusa? Why, it is the poem of a Spring 
ture of the river Sumida. 
I'n September of 1904, I returned home; the 
der silken autumnal rain that was Japanese 
;try, and my elder brother welcomed me (what 

[15] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

a ghost tired and pale I was then), and I wj 
taken to his house in the Nihonbashi district c 
Tokyo to wash off my foreign dust and slow' 
renew my old acquaintance with things Japanes 
Oh, that memorable first night after thirtedly 
years abroad! I spent it alone in the upstai][)oi 
room where I was left to sleep. I did not fa| 
asleep for many many hours on my floor in 
Japanese fashion; and my nostrils could n( 
make themselves free from a strange Japane; 
smell, indeed the soy smell, which I thought w'< 
crawling from the kitchen. As I said, the raj 
dropped quite incessantly; the lampHght burn^'"''^^' 
feebly; and I was alone. Listen! What w<;'*'' 
that I heard? Well, it was a cricket smgir 
under the roof or behind the hanging at tl 
tokonoma. I exclaimed then, "Was it possib 
to hear the cricket in the very centre of tl 
metropolis?" My mind at once recalled tl 
following Hokku poem by Issa: 

[16] 



knev 
liiss 
teal) 
t m 



h 
\ m I 
at till 
let of 
'emsii 
)Don 
rticul; 



icto 



PREFACE 

Let me turn over, 
Pray, go away, 
Oh, my cricket! 



"y thought dwelt for a long while that night 

)on Issa, the Hokku poet at the mountainside 

fak' Shinshu, and his shabby hut "of clay and 

intljljattles made" where he indeed lived with them; 

benever I read him, the first thing to strike me 

his simple sympathy with a small living thing 

:e a butterfly or this cricket, that was in truth 

e sure proof of his being a poet. Although I 

d often read the above poem, I can say that I 

ver felt its humanity so keenly as that night. 

When Mr. Aston published A History of Jap- 

ese Literature quite many years ago, I know 

at the part about Basho, the greatest Hokku 

et of the seventeenth century, and the Hokku 

ems in general, did not make a proper impres- 

'n on the Western mind. And here I have no 

rticular intention to force on your appreciation 

[17] 



npresi 
uriiK 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



with this Japanese form of poetry; I am her 
only to express my own love for it. When w 
say that the East is the same as the West, w 
mean that the West is as different from the Ea$j 
as the East is from the West; how could yo 
understand us through and through ! Poetry il [^ 
the most difficult art ; it will lose the greater pai 
of its significance when parted from its bacl< j, 
ground and the circumstances from which i 
springs forth. I should like to ask who in thL 
West will be able to think the following Hokk 
poem the greatest of its kind as we Japanes ^^^j^ 
once thought: j^j^t^^, 

It air 



iiceo 
leir u 



leHo: 



n 



On a withered twig, 

Lo, the crow is sitting there, 

Oh, this Autumn eve! 



Even to us, I confess, this soHtariness of a Jaij,w 
anese Autumn evening with the crow cryin^^^, 
rnonotonously on the tree is growing lately les, 

[18] 



her 



Eas 

h 

try 
rparf 



:ryin 



PREFACE 



^Qpressive, when in fact as today the crows be- 
'ome scarce before the factories and smoke; and 
ar modern heterogeneous minds are beginning 
i turn somewhere else. 

I declare myself to be an adherent of this 
!okku poem in whose gem-small form of utter- 
ice our Japanese poets were able to express 
eir understanding of Nature, better than that, 
sing or chant their longing or wonder or 
ioration towards Mother Nature; to call the 
okku poem suggestive is almost wrong, al- 
ough it has become a recent fashion for the 
Western critics to interpret, not only this Hokku 
It all Japanese poetry by that one word, because 
e Hokku poem itself is distinctly clear-cut like 
diamond or star, never mystified by any cloud 
• mist like Truth or Beauty of Keats' under- 
anding. It is all very well if you have a 
ggestive attitude of mind in reading it; I say 
at the star itself has almost no share in the 
eation of a condition even when your dream 

[19] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

or vision is gained through its beauty. I att)wca 
only pleased to know that the star had such ar by a 
influence upon you ; and I am willing to endorse 
you when you say the Hokku poem is suggestiv^ 
in the same sense that truth and humanity ar^ 
suggestive. But I can say myself that you^^ 
poem would certainly end in artificiality if yoi| 
start out to be suggestive from the beginning 
I value the Hokku poem, at least some of them 
because of its own truth and humanity simpl< 
and plain. Let me say for once and all there i 



Her J; 
slice 1 
ebesi 



no word in so common use by Western critic^' 
as suggestive, which makes more mischief thaij 
enhghtenment, although they mean it quite simp 
ly, of course, to be a new force or salvation; '. 
apologize to you for my digression when I sajPP"^^ 
that no critic is necessary for this world o 
poetry. Who will criticise truth or humanity 
I always thought that the most beautiful flowerl 
grow close to the ground, and they need no hun 
dred petals for expressing their own beauty 

[20] 



:empti 
texac 
em,H 
other ( 



arfr 



:reii:i 
riticsi 



inity 



auty 



PREFACE 

w can you call it real poetry if you cannot tell 
aijiiby a few words? Therefore these seventeen 

jilables are just enough at least to our Japanese 
5^'^find. And if you cannot express all by one 

'jokku, then you can say it in many Hokkus 
s, that is all. 
y°f I Although I was quite loyal to this seventeen 
liable form of Japanese poetry during many 
ars of my foreign wandering, I had scarcely 
y moment to write a Hokku in original Jap- 
ese or English. To translate Hokku or any 
ler Japanese poem into English rarely does 
;tice to the original; it is a thankless task at 
i best. What do you say, if there is one, 
Dpose, who brings down the spider-net and 

jjempts to hang it up in another place? Is it 
: exactly the case with a translator of Japanese 

\tm, Hokku or Uta, whatever it be? To use 
Dther expression, what would you say if some- 
iy ventured to imitate with someone^s fountain 
[21] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



pen the Japanese picture drawn with the bambo 
brush and incensed Indian ink? 

We confess that we have shown, to spea 
rather bluntly, very little satisfaction even wit 
the translation of Professor Chamberlain and tr ' 
late Mr. Aston; when I say that I was amaze 
at their literary audacity, I hope that my wore 
will never be taken as sarcasm. With due r^ 
spect, I dare say that nearly all things lea\ 
something to be desired for our Japanese min< 
or to say more truly, have something too muc 
that we do not find in the original, as a rcsu 
they only weaken, confuse and trouble the rcj 
atmosphere. I 

During many years of my Western life, no; 
amid the California forest, then by the skyscra] 
ers of New York, again in the London 'bus, i [^^i 
often tried to translate the Hokku of our o 
masters. I had written the following in Enj 
lish: 

[22] 



'arl,t 
fliere' 
letho 
iipe: 



kve 
a' 



Hen 



leavf! 



ere; 



PREFACE 

My Love's lengthened hair 
Swings o'er me from Heaven's gate: 
spea^l Lo, Evening's shadow! 

was in London, to say more particularly, Hyde 

ark, that I wrote the above Hokku in English, 

ihere I walked slowly, my mind being filled with 

e thought of the long hair of Rossetti's women 

1 1 perhaps had visited Tate's Gallery that after- 

)on ; pray, believe me when I say the dusk that 

iscended from the sky swung like that length- 

led hair. I exclaimed then: "Thank God that 

have a moment to feel a Hokku feeling and 

rite about it in English." Let me wait patient- 

f or a moment to come when I become a Hokku 

)et in my beloved English. 

scroll Here I beg to present you some English 

okku poems I had written lately. 



YONE NOGUCHI 

[23] 



NOTE 

Some of these poems are written ii 
measure of seventeen syllables, and th( 
others are more free in forms. But tht; 
Japanese Hokku spirit, I believe, runj 
through all of them. 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



Suppose the stars 

Fall and break ? — Do they ever sound 

Like my own love song? 



[27] 



A temple by the clouds. 

Down march the days and the pains. 

What hear I, brothers? 



[28] 



What is life? A voice, 

A thought, a Hght on the dark,- 

Lo, crow in the sky. 



[29] 



Some one at my door? 
Go away, go, — go away! 
Good night, sir or madam. 



[30] 



The seas sleep. The stars — 

They are where? Oh my loneliness! 

I gaze on my heart. 



[31] 



6 



The faint shadow of the morning moon? 
Nay, the snow faUing on the earth. 
The mist of blossoming flowers? 
Nay, poetry smiUng up the sky. 



[32] 



The far-away sky, 

The white billow in distance, 

And the expanse of Life and World. 



[33] 



8 



Sudden pain of earth 
I hear in the fallen leaf. 
"Life's autumn," I cry. 



[34J 



9 



My memory-bird, 

To the night's rhythm, soft and sad. 

Ghost, art thou not tired? 



85 



10 



Lift anchor, life-ship ! 

Love's red seas, white fancy-birds. 

Behold! and the blue. 



[36] 



11 



At eve, 

By a grass-made hut, 

The winds pass on. 

Saying something to the rice-plant leaves. 

I am knocking at the door of Life, — 
Is nobody in? 



[37] 



12 



Leaves blown, 
Birds flown away. 

I wander in and out the Hall of Autumn. 



[38] 



IS 

Oh, canst thou hear 

The love talk of the man-star 

With the star- woman? 



[39] 



14 

Is it that the banner blows? 
Is what is blowing the wind? 

Life? or death? 

Child, neither the banner nor the wind blows 
No life and death but in thy mind. 
Phantom that is seen and dies ! 



[40] 



15 



Lord, how long hast thou 

To spin the love-threads for dress ?- 

The love-threads of rain. 



[41] 



16 

Are the fallen stars 
Returning up the sky?- 
The dews on the grass. 



[42] 



17 



Shadow ! There's shadow ! 

Heaven's shadow! Shadow! Shadow 

Of my far-off thought! 



[43] 



18 

Is it a fallen leaf? 
That's my soul sailing on 
The silence of Life. 



[44] 



19 



Behold the sky where the cuckoo sung,- 
iThere remains the morning moon. 

Behold the world where Life cried, — 
There remains poetry. 



[45] 



20 



(From Buson) 

"Let day pass, 

"Let night break," — 

So the frogs sing morning and eve. 



46] 



21 



By the path of the breeze, 

Love lone but happy sings and roams. 

I gather the petals of thought, 
Nursed by the slumber of peace. 



[47] 



22 



Truth, like moon of day and night, 
Ever perfect, all silent and gold. 
Shed thy light over sorrow. 
Make me regain my rest and song. 



[48] 



23 



The voice falls like a dream, 
Across the light of forget fulness. 

Eternity rolled in love, 

Bids the visible world to sing. 



[49] 



24 



Oh, my own self in the barge 
Laden with the memory of mists, 
Gliding down by the life-grey stream. 



150] 



25 



I, a moth with no sense of the day, 

Dare not fly, 

Lest the silence be marred. 



151] 



26 

A breeze forgotten by life, 
Steps from thought to thought. 

Oh, peace gained by hushed prayer! 



[52] 



27 



The silence-leaves fallen from Life, 
Older than dream or pain, — 
Are they my passing ghost? 



[53], 



28 



"Ghost of my soul," I shout, 
"That cries only to curse me?" 
Tip, tip, tip . . . thus the rain falls. 



[54] 



29 

ill of faults, you say. 
hat beauty in repentance! 
;ars, songs . . . thus life flows 



[55] 



30 

Bits of song . . . what else? 
I, a rider of the stream, 
Lone between the clouds. 



[56] 



31 



^hat's the way that the stars grow old, 
s it only that life has to pass away? 

)h, monotonous song that makes me hate myself, 
;!ong of sadness, song of fate! 



[57] 



32 



Is it not the cry of a rose to be saved? 

Oh, how could I, 

When I, in fact, am the rose ! 



r68] 



33 



e has no time to think of others, he is an egoist 

is enthusiasm turns to silence, — 

)sing words, 

e gains his own personality. 



f69] 



34 



There's a moment the flower falls into false art, 
It's where the poet into mannerism falls too. j 

It's accident to exist as a flower or a poet : 
A mere twist of evolution but irom the samel 
force. 



[60] 



35 



Song of sea in rain, 

Voice of the sky, earth and men! 

List, song of my heart. 



161] ^ 



# 



36 



But the march to Life . . . 
Break song to sing the new song! 
Clouds leap, flowers bloom. 



[62] 



37 



To become tree-man, 

Oh, songs given back by the winds ! 

What joy of no-man. 



[63 



38 

I see no form but only beauty in evidence : 
Oh, imagination and desire, makers of the lit 
and art! 

To be the dancer is to make the singer sing. 



[64] 



39 



awled? Whereto? I know nothing except 

my desire 
t hunt after the hidden love, — 
Hamlet across the night and pain. 



[65] 



40 



Is it the pillar by which I reach the sky? 

Is it the hill whereon I put my faith? 

Is it eternity where songs may find their horn 



[66] 



41 



The ancient song of my heart 
Comes and goes in Life's light. 

Sudden, a glow, a rainbow. 

Draws its line across the breast of my soul. 



[67] 



42 

Fallen leaves ! Nay, spirits ? 
Shall I go downward with thee 
By a stream of fate? 



[68] 



43 

Lo, light and shadow 
Journey to the home of night 
Thou and I — to love! 



[69] 



44 



This way? or that way? 

Where's the very street to Heaven? 

What webs of streets! 



[70] 



45 



Waking or sleeping? 

Oh, "No-more" older than world ! 

Be 'way, earthly care! 



[71] 



46 

Speak not again, Voice! 
The silence washes off sins 
Come not again, Light! 



[72] 



47 

The seas are passion-red, 
The willows humanity-green. 

'Tis thy dream to make the rainbow sing, 
To make a stone leap to the sky. 



[73] 



48 



It is too late to hear a nightingale ? 
Tut, tut, tut, . . . some bird sings,- 
That's quite enough, my friend. 



[74] 



49 



Dh, to part now, does it mean that we shall 

meet never again? 
I To have done forever with joy, thou and I, 
Than to begin with pain again! 



[75] 



50 



I shall cry to thee across the years ? 
Wilt thou turn thy face to respond 
To my own tears with thy smile? 



[76] 



51 

iThe voice of the rockets — 
IThen the flash. 

Is it not that of my soul born to please the 

I people below, 

STo take pain of death in her keeping alone? 



[77] 



52 



To face only the sky and forget the land, 
Oh, to become a rider of the winds ! 

What a joy to find a greater song amid th^ 
clouds ! 



[78] 



53 



What is it? Is it 

The great voice of Judgment Day? 

Lo, pilgrim's of waves. 



[79] 



54 



Where the flowers sleep, 
Thank God! I shall sleep, to-night, 
To my own tears with thy smile? 



[80] 



55 



i e to the arts shouts : 

behold, ladies and gentlemen, the great equi- 

I librium 

Inly accomplished once in a thousand times!" 



[81] 



56 



I wish to be like a hurrying, rock-hurling mot 

tain stream, 
Its double torrents by the road of love will m 

in the end. 



[82] 



57 



I row across the expanse of sea, 

And the far-away sky, — 

I row across the white billows of pain. 



[83] 



58 



The fickle waves of a strand do drench m 

sleeves with sprays : 
My songs cry only to make the stars sing. 



W 



[84] 



59 



The maple leaves on the mountain top would 

wait for a king's train to pass once more, 
IvVhy will my life wait for my own song? 



[85] 



60 



How sweet is to sleep! 

Is there any more sweet word than good-nii 



ac( 
•eyti 



[86] 



61 



a cobweb hung upon the tree, 
■ey to wind and sunlight ! 
will say that we are safe and strong ? 



[87] 



62 

(From Ransetsu) 
To-day, at last to-day, 
I grew to wish to raise 
The chrysanthemum flowers. 



[88] 



63 



(From Basho) 

Ah, how subhme. — 

The green leaves, the young leaves, 

In the light of the sun! 



[89] 



64 



(From Ransetsu) 

Yellow chrysanthemum, white chrysanthemum 

Why, the other names for me 

Are of no use. 



[90] 



65 

I turned my face not to see 

Flowers or leaves; 

'Tis the autumn eve 

With the falling light. 

How solitary the cottage stands 

By the sea! 



[91] 



66 

(From Basho) 

Lying ill on journey, 

Ah, my dream 

Run about the ruin of fields. 



[92] 



67 

(From Buson) 
Slow passing days 
Gathered, gathering, — 
Alas, past far-away, distant! 



[93] 



68 

Oh, How cool — 
The sound of the bell 
That leaves the bell itself. 



[94] 



69 



Where's cherry blossom? 

The trace of the garden's breeze is seen no more, 

'. will point, if I am asked, 

Po my fancy snow upon the ground. 



[95] 



70 



O Matsu San and O Cho San sing well, 
But O Hana San is the best to sing. 

To-day I am alone with a flute 
Upon the emptiness of the blue. 



[96] 



71 



The nightingales under the boughs, 
Sighing now white, now red, 
Sing a pearl song 
Over the greyness of earth. 



[97] 



72 



The snow, like silent army, hurries to t 

ground ; 
I, by the fireside, lonely watch the yellow had 

of flame, 
Uplifting as if in prayer. 

I look around into the silence of the night. 



H 



[98] 



73 



[\ I hide myself behind the biggest billow,- 
Oh, what a deUght! 
How my poor doves search after me! 



[99] 



74 



Farewell, I go to the sea 

Where a hidden race chants toward the stars, 

Where the thirsty clouds dip in the oldest wir 



) 



[100] 



75 

(From Ki no Tomonori) 
Tis the spring day 
With lovely far-away light. 
Why must the flowers fall 
With hearts unquiet? 



[101] 



76 



(From Oye no Chizato) 

To gaze upon the moon 

Is to be sad in a thousand ways, 

Though all the autumns 

Are not meant to be my own self's alone. 



[102] 



77 



Is there anything new under the sun? 

Certainly there is. 

See how a bird flies, how flowers smile ! 



[103] 



78 



I sit by a charcoal brazier; 

Silence in the wind without calms my thought 

I ask myself if the fire is not my own self. 
What are the fire-sticks that mock, cheat, pla) 

with and stir my soul ? 
Oh, fire-sticks of my imagination, handle it kind 
It will soon pass away, like the fire, into dust 

the silence. 



[104] 



79 



The sunlight of morn 

Steps into my soul of dream, and says 

"What a wilderness art thou!" 



[105] 



80 

With irony in look, 

Poetry peeps into my heart. 



'Doest thou carry a little intrigue on thy shoul 
ders?" I say. 



[106] 



81 



^et me rise from life's dust, 
.nd save myself from pains. 
jV^ho will come with me for an hour's carnival? 



[107] 



82 



Creator of attitude and art, 
Singer of life's intoxication, of youthfulness and 
revolt. 

Oh, spring extravagant and proud! 



[108] 



83 



(From Saigio) 

Know I not at all who is within, 

But from the heart of gratitude, 

My tears fall, 

Again my tears fall ... 



[109] 



84 



The wind shook her hair of gloom; 

The bleak sun flew down the way the sorrc 

comes forth. 
My soul swings 
As if a willow leaf. 



[110] 



■ EPILOGUE 

I Our thoughts and emotions are only the con- 
inuation of the thoughts and emotions of our 

j 

mcestors, which were often left hidden, unex- 
pressed, happily for us, but always in existence, 
^ke the touch of air; while our thoughts may 
ippear so sudden, frighteningly new, they have 
iomewhere a link, sure like the stars, if you have 
0es to see, with those of our progenitors. We 
value what the ancestors expressed, because we 
pan read at the same time, what they left unex- 
pressed. I have no hesitation to say that the 
poets who sing like Byron or that golden-tongued 
Tennyson are admirable; but the good modern 
ij poets, no particular names mentioned, are unique 
at least on account of their inability (ability per- 
haps) in singing. It takes much talent to de- 
scribe the outward beauty, and, true to say, even 
some original gift to appreciate it; but your real 

[HI] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 



lapi 
all; 






CO 



courage will be proved in your entire loss 
desire of outward things. One can be taug| 
by another how to see and understand the ou 
ward beauty, but there's hardly any guidance | 
the invisible matter, and you are your own guic 
alone in the world, in your change from t 
visible to the spiritual. It is easy to change yo] 
dress and hat according to the season and stylj 

but the outside attire, even the best kind, is of i 

i 
avail for your spiritual change. It is natur 

course to enter the invisible from the visible, 

you step into night from day; but you must 

it come after having enough satisfaction of t 

outward things. The mellow perfection of t^ 

night only comes after all the splendour of t 

sun. 

As for me, I have no strong love with tl 

outward things, and always take a deep delig'j 

in the little inward world — the largest world 

haps — of my creation, and rarely sing the visi 

beauty. Is it because I am philosophical? P 

[112] 



EPILOGUE 

aps I am, without knowing it at all. Is it be- 

ause I am somewhat logical? Perhaps I am, 

'Ithough people (I included) do not notice it. 

|)ne thing I can say with much faith is that I 

ake a great energy to gain an assertion, and a 

j^jj^Tjireless persistence to be content with the invisible 

.hings. You must fully understand the beauty of 

^^^^ ife, if you want to see the beauty of death; and 

, ; ife will be more beautiful from the reason of 

IS 01 III 

:ontrast with death. And death, again from the 

:ontrast with life, will be more tender in pathos, 

nore subtle in rhythm. My song is always with 

a. he falling leaves and the dying day. 

.1 I am not ready to say such is the poetry of 

I nodem Japanese poets ; it is so at least with some 

)f them. And it is a most striking contrast with 

:he material civilization of present Japan, which 

.,vvas brought at once from the West; the West, 

^'™ strangely enough, sent us at the same time her 

^spiritual literature under the arbitrary name of 

p Wmbolism. Now, that symbolism is not a new 

[113] 



JAPANESE HOKKUS 

thing at all ; for us, it is a continuation, of couil 
with much modification, of our old thoughts ai 
emotions. It is interesting to note that it car 
here when we were much criticized as materi; 
ists without capacity of understanding any spi: 
tual beauty. As somebody says, the real mode 
civilization of Japan is nothing but the old civi 
zation which has changed its form ; and I say tb 
the true new literature is, indeed, the old liter! 
ture, baptized in a Western temple. We ha 
led, for a thousand years, our insular lives; i 
have been materially poor (many thanks for th 
poverty) , and then we found it quite easy to coi 
mune with our minds. As the reality was nevj 
so splendid, we were obliged to seek satis facti 
in dream; as we could not sing so well, ^ 
learned the art how to sing in silence, the c 
how to leave unsung. Poetry was never a cri 
cism of life in Japan, as it was for one time 
the West; but it was the words of adoration ai 
love of nature and life. It is only the mode 

[114] . 



as 



tec 



mode 



EPILOGUE 

^^couri note to make the most of literature and life; it is, 
?litsaiBl dare say, from the hidden desire to value the 
car I; no-literature and death more than the literature 
4 and life themselves. 

We must lose our insularity, although it needs 
a strength of consciousness; what we want is 
intensiveness, the art of distillation of our 
aytlii thought, which only comes from the true pride 
liter|i| and real economy of force. Universalism is of- 
ten a weakness itself. We do not need, in our 
; I Japanese literature, any long epic and song be- 
cause they are touched more or less by pretension. 
Our song is a potted tree of a thousand years* 
growth; our song is a Japanese tea-house — four 
factiiil mats and a half in all — where we burn the rarest 
\'f| incense which rises to the sky ; our song is an opal 
with six colors that shine within. 



vei 
for til 



nodei: 



THE END 



[H5] 



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